The Invisible
by Captain Corset
Summary: A collection of drabbles, starting with a bit on Molly Hooper. A lot of the focus is on the smaller moments. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

_Enjoy!_

The tears welled up in her chest. They weren't allowed to her eyes. If they got there, they might leak. It felt like they were multiplying and forcing their way up her throat. Each salty droplet added to the deluge. She was drowning inside. The tears were spreading to her bloodstream, dragging their sadness with them. It choked her and weighed her down. She felt like she shrank a little and desperately wished for anyone. No one noticed and she simply sat, silently drowning and the world kept turning.

_"Are you okay?"_ she was asked once. _"I'm fine!" _said her actress's smile. She despises how she can lie. She hates her talents. It makes her water level rise every time someone accepts her answers.

"Why are you upset?" He asked without looking up from his microscope.

"I'm not"

"Don't lie to me." She doesn't care that he can't sympathize. At least he can see. She lost all ability to lie to him. She lost her talent at pretending, but she preferred the awkward way he made her act to the horrid lies of before.

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><p>She latched on. He didn't notice. She thrived off of anything he said. No matter how rude or biting, the little things he noticed made up for it. He could tell anything about her without trying. Except that she adored him. She tried to catch his attention. His only flaw was his inability to <em>understand. <em>He saw and comprehended so much, but he couldn't relate. And she was hopelessly in love with him.

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><p>She didn't like his new friend. The man looked like the type that would fascinate him like she couldn't. That's why she hated the detective inspector as well. He always took away the attention that made her live. She craved every little comment. She wanted all and took very little.<p>

She sat quietly and wished the army doctor away.

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><p>She desperately tried to free herself from the endless cycle of adoration that she was trapped in by the aura of <em>Him<em>. And then she met Jim. Lovely Jim who could understand and feel. She didn't care that he was slightly too well-dressed. _He _was well dressed. Sure, Jim seemed to take a special care of his appearance, but he was the caring type. For some reason Jim was really interested in _Him_, but so was she, so it didn't matter.

She healed a little more.

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><p>He couldn't be gay. This was absolute numbing shock and the pain of failure. Wonderful Jim who cared for her. <em>He <em>had to be wrong. But he had never been wrong before. But there is a first time for everything, right?

_Then why did he give _Him_ his number?_

She thinks she must have known. Must've denied it, thinking everything would be fine. Must've been waiting for everything to fall to shit. Like it always did.

She fell again. Cracked open and filled with salt water.

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><p>Jim disappeared. At least the virtual Jim did. The very real, very solid Jim didn't. <em>He <em>was in more, she could tell there was something going on between them. And _His_ doctor what's-his face. They glared at Jim every time they saw him. Jim just grinned. What was going on?

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><p>She crumbles more and more. Still feeding off of <em>His <em>comments, deteriorating as they became fewer and fewer. She drowns and one day the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes will fleetingly wonder where she ran off to. And a government employee, who looks in on everyone who ever heard the name of the man who can save as easily as destroy, will write 'suicide'. Then she and her tears will spill into the dust.

_Thanks for reading! Please review!_

_This wasn't originally supposed to be a fic, it just turned into one._


	2. Chapter 2

_Just a short little thing for you for now. Enjoy!_

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><p>He looked like a mole. The resemblance was really quite disturbing. He hunched forward slightly with hulking, broad shoulders. His head was large atop the small piece of thick neck that was visible. Brown hair worn in a short buzz cut seemed to make his head look flat on top. Behind his glasses, small eyes squinted at the ground in front of him as he trod with heavy steps. You could almost see his breathing through his slack-jawed mouth not bothering to use his proportionally large nose. His skin was dark from hours in the sun, despite the way he narrowed his eyes in the light of the florescent bulbs. He was ungraceful and his arms hung uselessly still by his sides, a pair of idle hands curled slightly at the end of his thick arms. As the shuffled moleishly forward, his gaze would occasionally dart up or to the side, then back to the path in front of him. He wasn't completely obese, but he was still bulbous. You would have expected him to have a dry, wheezing voice that matched his countenance. In actuality, his voice quite deep and full. Sherlock immediately hated that voice. He immediately hated the entirety this mole.<p>

It was immediately obvious that this _man, _if you could call him that, was the one who committed the murder. You could practically smell his quilt. He must be rich, especially to have wife like that. Granted, she walked all over him. That much was visible in his slightly fraying outfit and her expensive wardrobe. She obviously had many affairs, he was aware of several, possibly all, of them. The most recent was someone he was at school with. He could see that much. And he was most likely someone who made fun of him. He couldn't take it and killed his wife. All it took was one punch and her delicate neck snapped. Yes, Sherlock hated this… _thing._

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><p><em>Author's note:<em>

_So I think I'm going to turn this into a collection of drabbles like Time Lord Victorious's. Comment letting me know, I would try to get several up a week if not one a day. Thanks for reading and please review! _

_Love and little bats,_

_Gothling  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Enjoy!_

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><p>I swallow again, forcing my throat to work. The bitter taste of poison still lingers on my tongue and I let out a breath and roll onto my side. I can feel my body failing and the sweat on my face, but I have bigger problems then dying right now. I need to get away.<p>

"Sherlock?" Interesting, Mycroft came himself. That means… Means something… I can't think straight. I need to get away. I should… Should find John. Yes. John. I draw my phone out of my pocket with shaking hands and attempt to create a message.

_Behinf the opn cffin._

_SH_

I could hardly see what I was saying, but I sent it anyways. I needed to set up my beacon. I can hear Mycroft shouting. Pushing back against the wall of the warehouse, I managed to stand. The nearest wooden box was a few feet away. Just too far for me to reach when leaning against the wall. I shoved off the wall and staggered to the coffin. I nearly pushed it to the floor when my body slammed into it. My hands were trembling uncontrollably as I forced my body to obey me, even as it was failing. I attempted to push the lid open but I kept slipping. I would try to push or pry it up and my hands would slide off, sending my shoulder into the coffin again and again. It was slowly sliding further away each time I hit it.

Finally, I managed to slip my fingertips under the slim crack under the lid. Slowly, carefully, I pushed it up. Just as it had finally been set up straight, I collapsed. I saw a blurry pair of shoes round a corner and pause. The shoes rushed towards me. I can't tell who it is. I pray its John. Or Yorick, though the likelihood that my skull sprouted a body is quite unlikely.

"What am I going to do with you Sherlock?" John. Good, I couldn't do anything about Mycroft in this state. A sea of nausea churns in my stomach as I am lifted into the air. I can feel each uneven step he takes. He's trying to run but my weight is throwing him off. We finally reach a door and I am blinded by the sunlight. I feel myself shoved forward and falling. If I could move, I would catch myself. I land in a cab and John slides in after me.

"The hospital. As fast as you can."

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><p><em>I was trying to get this up quickly and had little time to edit, so please forgive me if anything is horribly wrong. <em>

_Please review!_

_Love and little bats,_

_Gothling_


	4. Chapter 4

_Enjoy!_

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><p>It felt like someone was hammering the back of his eyes. Like a group of small construction workers who sole purpose in their small live was to make his life hell. They hammered away.<p>

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

A light reflected off of something and was shining on his face. As his aching eyes opened the reflection blinded him and the construction workers went mad. It was as if the light hurt them as much, or more, than it hurt him. They angrily protested with their small hammers, working harder and harder.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

He groaned and quickly rolled to the side to avoid the offending light. The shift in position didn't help. The workers were now blinded, angry, _and_ shaken up. His stomach churned, roiling in protest of the sudden movement. The workers continued.

_Bang. Bang. Bang. _

Sick. He couldn't possibly be sick. He has to work. He's late for work at the practice anyways, and Sherlock will probably drag him around all night. He can't be sick. He's a doctor for goodness's sake! He's supposed to be the one making people better! A doctor getting sick is like banker going broke. It isn't supposed to happen. Then it does.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

He snuffled as he sat up. It seemed that even a slight, slow movement would make his situation worse. The change in position put pressure on his head and he held his face in his hands with his elbows on his knees for several moments. He refused to move until his vision stopped swaying. It hurt behind his eyes.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

"John!" The sudden noise caused him to jump to a standing position, upsetting his head again. Groaning, he began to trudge down the stairs. Heavy step after heavy step. Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

"John!" The shout came at him again. _Don't pay attention. Keep walking. _He chanted his little goal over and over. It blocked everything else out. He was focused on his task, reaching the flat ground.

_Bang. Bang. Bang. _

He reached the bottom of the stairs, eyes still half closed, and moved into the room. His name was called again by the figure lying on the sofa. Taking a deep breath he turned to face his flat mate. He could feel his heart beat in his aching head. He could feel each calming, steady thud.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

"What, Sherlock?" His voice sounded broken and raspy. Sherlock groaned and mumbled something into the couch. "What? Sherlock I can't hear you when you mumble." It didn't help that the workers weren't fond of stairs.

_Bang. Bang. Bang. _

"I'm sick, John. Make me better." His voice was slightly whiny and congested. It only helped to make him sound like the spoiled child he acted like sometimes. It was just about all John could take this morning.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

"No." He could act like a child just as well as Sherlock could, and he would. "I'm sicker. _You _make _me _better." With those words he slowly walked back to the stairs and began to climb back to his room. Heavy step after heavy step.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

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><p><em>Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! Don't stop!<em>

_Love and little bats,_

_Gothling  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

_So this came about because 'Blue Lips' by Regina Spektor was stuck in my head for a ridiculous amount of time._

_Enjoy!_

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><p>His feet pounded spasmodically on the pavement. Breathing was nigh impossible as he ran. He was choking on memories and tears, unable to think. He was freezing. Fact and fiction confused themselves in his exhausted mind. <em>So tired<em>. Walking was getting harder and harder and he paused to rest a moment. Standing still, his breath came back slightly and he started moving again. The snow lining the road only made him colder, but he managed to lengthen his stride and move away faster. No one paid him any attention as he scurried along. Nobody looked his way or bothered him or smiled.

Memories swarmed to his mind so vividly it was as if he was in two separate places. Past and present. He was looking at the white powder covering the sidewalk. He was a boy sitting in church learning about Adam and Eve. He was seeing his reflection in a storefront as he passed it. He was a teenager smiling for a picture with his friends. Tears of sadness and pain wreaked havoc on his frozen cheeks. He was in Afghanistan, explosions going off all around. Fighting alongside a man he had met there and would never see again. He was struggling now. Running in the cold was sending pains through his side and his breath came in gasps. The bullet was tearing through his skin and hitting his hip. He was lying with his dead enemies.

After fighting for what seemed like weeks, he had finally broken through their lines, only to be killed. He couldn't move. He just lay amongst the dead and dying staring at the sky. The blue sky that surrounded this blue planet. When he was young he wanted to go into the sky and never come down. He had never seen the other side of the sky.

He was passing by a blue bench and a park. A man was leaning over him. _'You'll be alright.' _His voice sounded so kind. The exact tone he used was still clear in the memory. The army doctor who saved him then could do nothing now. Now he was no longer in war but he was still fighting. He was sent home. Days were spent completely silent, he did nothing but walk along rows of picket fences. Finally forced to settle back into the mundane flow that surrounded this world, he couldn't.

He had never doubted the existence of God and heaven. He had desperately held on to any hope there was. Especially now, chased by death. Yet, how could God exist? How could He possibly be real and still let all that terrible fighting and blood-shed happen?

Eventually he found a job. A poor paying one that he soon became enslaved to, just one unimportant step along an assembly line way passed due for new machinery. Unable to see a way out, and uncaring. Passing another storefront, he could see the blue tinge around his lips.

Then he got the offer. No friends, no family, he was the perfect candidate. He got the job in the bank. He even found a girl. Snow seeped into his dress shoes, they were never meant to encounter the cold substance. He remembered lying in bed with her. Her delicate wrist resting on his chest as she slept. Remembered thing how small those so important blue veins were. How he was so grateful he had them. How he was more grateful she had them.

He wished he could lose himself in those blue veins now. Wished he could lose himself in a kiss with his blue lips. Leave the blue world and go to the blue sky. Just fade away and be absorbed in the _blue. _How all-encompassing that color was. How_ human_. The most human color. The jade had been beautiful with the blue. It complimented the mortality of people. It made her more beautiful.

Barely managing to stumble into his flat, he somehow manages to make it to the bed. He was shivering and licking his lips in an attempt to chase away the blue. As if that would help scare away the death that was coming. Get rid of any signs of your mortality.

The window latch lifted silently and a thin, shadowy figure slipped inside. Pulling out a gun, the silhouette fired a single bullet. The target fell back onto his bed silently and the killer prepared the stage for its next actors.

_God this is all there is._

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><p><em>Please review!<em>

_Love and little bats,_

_Gothling_


	6. Chapter 6

_Enjoy!_

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><p>He was bent over his homework, furiously writing. The assignment was bearing the brunt of his silent fuming. Splitting headaches constantly cut through his head, he had to <em>remember<em>. Already, several rememberings had slipped through the grasp of his mind. What did it matter if he had perfect grades if he couldn't remember all of it and more? Deep grooves were etched into his homework and he continued to torture the poor piece of paper with his brilliant, but angry answers. The last thing he needed now was something set him off. With a _snap _his pencil broke and the lead pierced the paper.

He let out a groan of frustration and slammed his fists onto the table. Small bubbles of distress rose inside him and popped spreading into his anger. It seeped in and he was losing hope. How was he going to solve every puzzle if he couldn't know everything?

"Sherlock?" he heard Mycroft call from the other room and footsteps crossing to the door. He couldn't deal with his _perfect_ brother right now. Quickly, he stood and rushed to the window. He was clambering out as the doorknob was turning. Just as the door opened he had managed to bring his legs up onto the roof. Repositioning himself, he managed to maneuver around to the spot of roof directly above his window.

With hardly enough time to get onto the roof, he couldn't have shut the window. Shifting some more, he moved just out of arm's reach. The footsteps were heard walking to his desk. Mycroft probably saw the broken pencil and the dark lines in the paper where he had written. The footsteps paused there for a moment and then continued to the open window. Mycroft's head stuck out and looked side to side. Seeing nothing he pulled it back in. Then it reemerged, facing up towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock, come down."

"No."

"Fine, stay up there. I had a question, but it doesn't matter." There was a pause. "You don't have to know everything, Sherlock." It was quietly spoken. Nothing was said after, and Mycroft pulled his head back in. Sherlock waited until he could hear the door closing, then he climbed back into the room.

Was Mycroft right?It didn't really make sense to remember what wasn't useful. What use would the solar system be in solving _worldly _crimes? Deciding not to finish his homework, he laid back on his bed, arms tucked behind his head, thinking. Efficiency doesn't necessarily mean knowing everything. He lay there on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and started deleting.

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><p><em>Please Review!<em>

_Love and bats,_

_Gothling  
><em>


	7. Chapter 7

Decided that this should be updated for those who showed interest. More, better things to come. For now, here's a snippet to tide you over.

_Enjoy_!

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><p>He hated the bastards.<p>

That was a lie. They gave him a sort of energy that he hadn't had in years, but he was constantly exhausted. That was the work of ageing. Even nights out with friends were spent sitting at bars and talking. No more rugged partying. Though to be fair, he had always been more of an introvert. On the wildest of nights, Stamford would blend with the crowd, playing the wingman to the more outspoken med students. It was incredible how a little weight could cast a huge shadow on ones personality.

he had never been one to focus so much on physical traits, but he did want to be a doctor at one point. "Why aren't you a health nut?" The student loathed that question. Now, no one asked, it was rude to bother teachers about things like that. The whispers were quieter now. "Those who can do..." Bollocks. What use was a teacher who wasn't capable? How did those young sods expect to learn if they were being lead by the blind? He cracked open a bottle of water, the seal snapping under his fist. A slight shift in his hand sent echoes of movement through the water, a tremor that he decidedly ignored.

Cool water swished around his mouth, clearing out the foul after effects of the gross anatomy lab. Of course he was used to it by now, but he was definitely one for the more living side of health. Thoughts of corpses brought him to Sherlock. The curious detective had seemed a permanent fixture in the lab, always busy with something that seemed far above Stamford's own interests. Several attempts at talking had resulted only in curt answers from the detective and humoured bafflement for the teacher.

"What is it you do, exactly?"

"Consulting detective." He gazed intently at the microscope.

"That's not actually a job, though. Is it?"

"Only one in the world."

"Ah. Pay well, does it?"

"I imagine you would know about paying well, Professor. It's a modest place you keep, and I'm being more than generous."

And so it went. Stamford eventually found some sort of way to talk to the man, bringing him coffee on breaks in an attempt to curry favour with the eccentric. The water warmed in his mouth and he swallowed with a gulp. He sighed, shaking his head and trying to wake up. John had been having issues with Harry again. Nothing new, but late nights were a thing of the past. He sighed again and decided to make his way back to work.

They had it wrong, those people saying things. Those who can teach, do. It took immeasurable effort to keep going with a room full of young, energetic minds. They would do whatever it was they were meant to, and likely he wouldn't see them again. It was tough work, teaching. Those who "can" were taught. How stupid to think that they were the only ones capable. Stamford walked along the sidewalk, still reminiscing about Sherlock.

St Bart's lie ahead, and the teacher skirted the particular spot on the sidewalk where the genius detective had landed. The teachers were left behind, they were the ones who didn't believe what the world said. They did, and they believed.

Stamford believed in Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
